


Comfort

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Oral Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as 2nd Prize for a writing giveaway I recently did on Tumblr. The winner requested fluffy smut with Merrill and her Byrne Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maybethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/gifts).



It had been his eyes that she had noticed first of all, from the very day of their meeting. Bright gold, usually, like the eyes of a wolf, or the hawk his family was named after, or an elf. Though not really like an elf either, the iris and pupils being oddly small. Strange, she sometimes thought, that the humans, usually so much bigger than the elves in most matters of anatomy, had such small eyes. But his were nice eyes, and surprisingly warm and kind when looking at her, and she liked that. She liked, too, the way they changed colour; not always bright gold, the shade changing with his mood and the lighting, darker gold when he was lost in thought or sad, brightest gold when he was happy or angry.

They had been very dark lately, ever since his mother's death.

It made her sad, too – she'd liked Leandra, who'd always been kind to her. And her death had been horrifying, a perversion of the natural order of the world. With his sister long-dead, and Carver returned to Ferelden, Byrne was so alone now. Aveline, she knew, had been doing what she could for him, dragging him off to talk over drinks whenever she could, while Isabela and Varric had been trying to get him to come down to the Hanged Man, and spending time with him up at his mansion when he wouldn't come.

"You should visit Hawke," Isabela had told her. "I'm sure he'd enjoy seeing you."

She'd been hesitant at first, not wanting to intrude, but Isabela had assured her it would be no intrusion, and a good and kind thing to do, and so she'd decided that she would do it. Today. Maybe. Except she was still worried over whether or not it would be a suitable thing to do. Human customs were so different than elven... what if she got it wrong? What if she made him angry at her.

If it was another elf, she'd feel no hesitation in going; she knew the elven customs for such visits, both the Dalish ones, and the customs here in the alienage. Well, unless it was a visit to Fenris; he didn't much care for her, and the thought of visiting him alone at his mansion was frightening. Far more so than the thought of visiting Byrne, who was her friend, and who... No, she wouldn't think of that.

Maybe she _should_ just think of it as if she was visiting another elf. It was less frightening that way. She should make some food to bring; something warming, to settle the nerves. Soup, she decided, it being one of the few things she could cook reasonably well. An easy recipe – just lots of water, and whatever meat and vegetables there were on hand, and maybe some herbs and salt.

Making the soup took time, of course, time during which she alternated between feeling nervous, worrying that she'd get things wrong after all, and feeling confidant that she was doing the right thing. She was relieved when the soup was finally ready and she could stop worrying over whether or not to go. She poured it into a crock, tying a piece of cloth over top of it and then knotting a length of heavy twine around it to make a carrier, with a doubled loop of twine for a handle. She took a last nervous look around her house to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything, combed and refastened her hair, wiped her damp palms dry on a bit of cloth, then picked up the crock of soup and set out.

It was a very long walk up to Hightown, carrying the heavy crock, its rough handle biting into the skin of her hand, but Merrill was strong and took her time, keeping carefully out of the way of the hurrying humans. She knew from past experience that they would often think nothing of walking right through where she was, as if she was invisible, and then blame _her_ for any jostling that resulted. The shemlen were rude like that. She must have changed her mind and considered turning back to the alienage at least a half dozen times before she finally she reached the Amell mansion, Hawke's house, so much bigger than anyone else's. Well, except for Fenris' mansion, which was as big if not bigger, but then Fenris only made use of one or two rooms of it, living as he did on his own, without servants. She stood in the little protected entryway for a while, catching her breath and calming her nerves before finally knocking on the door.

The _durgen'len_ , Bodahn, answered it, smiling welcomingly up at her and bowing as he let her in. She liked him; he was always polite to everyone. Though with some people it was the very formal politeness that meant he didn't like them much, she knew, but that was far better than being rude.

"Messere Hawke is still upstairs in his room, if you'd like to see him. Just go right on up, I'm sure he'll be happy to see _you_ ," he said, and looked curiously at the crock she was carrying. "You've brought him something?" he asked, then sniffed at the air, and smiled again, looking even more pleased. "A-ha, food of some kind – stew or soup I'm guessing – should I bring some bowls and spoons upstairs for the two of you? Bread, perhaps?"

"Yes, please, and thank you Bodahn."

"No thanks are necessary, all part of the service. I'll be up shortly," he assured her, and hurried off to the kitchen.

Ruffian was stretched out on the floor at the foot of the stairs, his head resting on his outstretched paws. His ears pricked up and head lifted as soon as she entered the hall, and he sprang to his feet as she approached, stub of tail wagging energetically. She stopped to pet his head, frowning slightly to see him down here instead of upstairs with Byrne. "Has he kicked you out of his room?" she asked.

Ruffian whined, and hung his head, ears and tail dropping. Merrill tsked. "Well, you should come upstairs with me – we can give each other courage, yes?"

Ruffian woofed and lowered his forequarters for a moment, grinning doggishly at her with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, then sprang upright, turned, and went to the foot of the stairs, where he paused and looked back over his shoulder at her. Merrill smiled, and headed up the stairs, the mabari climbing them beside her.

The door to Byrne's room was shut. She hesitated, then tapped on the wood. There was no response; just silence. She knocked a little louder.

"Av'line? Iz'at you?" Byrne called, voice muzzy from sleep. "Door's unlocked."

She pushed it open, and peered into the room, Ruffian pushing his way in past her through the gap, trotting over to stand beside the bed, sniffing curiously at Byrne's face and hair. "It's not Aveline – it's just me, Hawke."

"Merrill!" Byrne exclaimed, pushing away Ruffian's inquisitive nose, and sat up in bed, the sheets falling down around his waist. Merrill blushed, even though he was wearing a nightshirt and perfectly decent. "Oh... err, give me a minute, please," he said, looking down at himself.

"Of course," she said, and hastily retreated to the hallway, closing the door behind her, standing there feeling self-conscious and worried that she'd done it all wrong after all. She thought of just putting down the crock of soup and fleeing, then thought of how much more embarrassing it would be to leave now that Hawke knew she was there. She stayed.

It was only a few minutes until Byrne opened the door, dressed now in woollen leggings and a linen tunic. He smiled warmly at her, and waved one hand in a gesture that was clearly inviting her to enter. His feet were still bare, she noticed, and it made her want to smile, to actually see his toes and high-arched feet, and the tendons crossing the top of them. Like elven feet, but broader and shorter, and his toes looked very short and stiff compared to her own. She wondered if humans had such useless toes because they wore shoes so much of the time, or if they wore shoes so much of the time because they had useless toes.

"I'm glad you came over," Byrne said as he shut the door after shooing Ruffian back out into the hallway. "I should have been up out of bed long before this... Aveline had me out late last night," he explained, and flushed.

Merrill nodded, then held up the crock, steadying it with her other hand and holding it out to Byrne. "This is for you," she said.

"For me?" he said, sounding both surprised and delighted. "What is it?" he asked even as he reached out to take it from her hands.

"Nothing special... just some soup. I thought it might help you to feel better."

He smiled slightly. "Did you make it yourself? I'm sure it will," he said, then looked around distractedly. "We'll need bowls..."

There was a tap at the door. "Just me, messere!" Bodahn called out before entering, carrying a tray laden with bowls, spoons, and a plate of buttered bread. "Now where would you like this?"

"Oh... err... over by the fire, I suppose."

Bodahn set the tray down where indicated, bowed to Byrne, smiled at Merrill, bowed to Byrne a second time, and hurried off.

"I think Bodahn approves of you," Byrne said, sounding amused, as he carried the crock over and set it down beside the tray. He undid the twine, and removed the cloth covering it, peering inside briefly before cupping his hands around the crock. Flames crackled around his hands for a few seconds; the soup was steaming gently when he stopped casting.

Bodahn had been thoughtful enough to provide a serving ladle; the two of them were soon seated cross-legged on the floor before the fire, each with a bowl of soup in hand and the plate of buttered bread between them. It was very quiet at first, both of them glancing at each other in between spoonfuls of soup and bites of bread.

Merrill made a face after her first few spoonfuls. "It's not as tasty as I'd hoped it would be," she said.

Byrne looked faintly surprised. " _I_ think it tastes just fine," he told her.

Merrill frowned, and ate a little more. "No, it's not very good at all. I think I forgot to add any salt," she confessed, feeling disappointed that she'd somehow neglected such a simple step.

"It's fine even without salt."

"No, it's not," Merrill said, and frowned. "It's very kind of you to say so, but I don't like it if you tell me things are fine when they're not. I'd prefer you being truthful over being nice."

Byrne lowered his bowl, and just looked at her for a moment. Then a very small smile lifted one corner of his lips. "All right. You're right – it's not very tasty," he agreed, then put down his bowl and walked over to the door, opening it to lean out into the hallway. "Bodahn! Bring us up some salt!" he shouted, then turned back to her, raising one eyebrow."Better?"

Merrill tried to keep her expression serious, but found herself smiling in amusement at him. "Yes."

Bodahn soon arrived, huffing and puffing from having run up the stairs, a silver and glass salt-cellar in one hand. Byrne accepted it from him, thanking him gravely, then carried it over, added a little salt to his own bowl, and set the salt-cellar down beside the plate of bread. Merrill added some to her own soup as well, stirring it in and taking a sip. " _Much_ better," she said approvingly, then shook one finger at Byrne. "You should always be truthful. It's better not to lie."

"Even out of kindness?"

"Well... sometimes out of kindness. But I'd prefer that you always be truthful with me."

"Even if I'm not sure that you'll like what I have to say?"

Merrill pursed her lips for a moment. "Especially then, Hawke."

Byrne looked down at the bowl of soup in his hands, idly stirring it, but not lifting the spoon to his lips. "What about if I'm... if I'm frightened about how you might react to what I have to say?"

"You? Frightened of me?" Merrill asked, startled. "Why-ever for, Hawke?"

He glanced at her, then looked away, his ears flushing with colour. "I like you, Merrill."

"And I like you too, Hawke, but what does that have to do with..." she broke off, and frowned, remembering something Isabela had once said, about the difference between liking and _liking_. She flushed in self-conscious embarrassment. " _Oh_. Oh."

Byrne bit his lip and looked at her. For a moment she was reminded of the way Ruffian would look when he wanted someone to give him a bit of whatever they were eating; this must be what Isabela meant when she talked about puppy-dog eyes, she realized.

"I.. _like_ you too," she repeated softly, her being the one to look elsewhere now.

Byrne huffed out air, loudly enough for her to give him a startled look. He looked relieved. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. Thank you," he said, then put down his bowl of soup and leaned forward, bracing himself on one hand. He paused, a gap still between them. "Is it all right if I... may I kiss you?" he asked, almost plaintively.

"Yes," she said, smiling warmly at him as she put down her own half-eaten bowl of soup.

He grinned for a moment, then leaned forward. She leaned forward as well, closing her eyes and holding her breath in anticipation. Soft lips collided with her nose, the hard teeth and the warm wet tip of his tongue momentarily in contact with the end of it, before they both flinched away, equally startled.

Byrne's eyes were wide with dismay. "Oh, no! I'm so sorry, Merrill, I just... I forgot how blighted _short_ you are!" he exclaimed.

Merrill laughed, unable to stop herself. That had been so _silly_... Byrne flushed redly for a moment, looking miserable, then suddenly grinned and began to laugh as well. It took them a while to stop laughing; every time one or the other of them stopped, they'd try to say something, end up sputtering and then breaking out in a fresh peal of laughter. Merrill's sides were aching by the time the two of them finally managed to stop, and Byrne was wiping tears from his eyes. He'd _needed_ that laugh, she felt sure, and was obscurely happy that she'd been the cause of it.

"May I try again?" he asked softly, then grinned crookedly. "I promise to have better aim."

She grinned back at him. "You could hardly have worse," she said. "All right."

The second kiss went much better than the first, warm lips brushing softly against hers, then pressing with more firmness. She felt the tip of his tongue again, tasting at her lips, and after a moment let them open slightly, so it could explore further in. He tasted a little of of tooth powder and soup, and she could feel a crumb of bread caught between their lips. She couldn't help it; she had to break off the kiss, fighting back a giggle.

"Was I that bad?" Byrne asked, sounding dismayed again.

"No, Hawke... it was very nice. Just..." she gave in and giggled, and picked up her napkin, dusting his lips. "Crumbs," she explained, and dabbed at her own while Byrne laughed again, eyes bright with amusement now.

"Let's do this _properly_ ," he said, feigning sternness, and reached out, pulling her over into his lap, almost knocking over the soup bowls in the process. She laughed again, startled and pleased, and then his arms were around her waist, and his lips pressing against hers, and _oh_ , it just all felt so good and so right this time. She slid her own arms free and looped them around his neck, humming in pleasure as his arms closed more snugly around her, drawing her close. The third kiss lasted a very long time, and they were both flushed and smiling when they finally, regretfully, let it come to an end. Merrill stayed where she was, in his lap with his arms still around her, and smiled warmly at him.

H was studying her face with a slightly worried expression on his own. It made her smile, and reach up to smooth her hand over his wrinkled forehead. "Do not worry, _ma vhenan_ – you did that very well," she told him.

He grinned, then, and kissed her again, just quickly, on the cheek. "Thank you," he said, and sighed, and then hugged her tightly. "Oh, _Merrill_..." he said, then his head dropped to her shoulder and he began to cry.

It was, like the laughter, something he needed to do, she knew. She shifted around so she was straddling his lap instead of sitting sideways over it, putting her arms around him and rubbing his back and talking to him soothingly while he clung to her, and finally released the grief he'd been holding in since Leandra's death. It took a very long time; small wonder, as many weeks as he'd been letting it poison him.

His eyes were red from crying when he finally stopped, and he looked tired and sad. She got up and pulled on his arm, urging him to his feet and guiding him back over to the bed. "You need to sleep, vhenan," she told him. "Lie down and rest for a while."

He nodded, and lay down, then caught at her hand as she was pulling the sheets back up over him. "Will you stay with me, Merrill? Please?" he asked, voice cracked and raw.

"Of course," she said. "Let me just clean up first." By the time she'd put everything on the tray and put it outside the door for Bodahn to take away later – Ruffian immediately coming over to finish off the leftover soup and bread – and had returned to the bed, Byrne was already starting to drift off to sleep, eyes half-closed. She stretched out on top of the sheets beside him. He woke enough to turn over to face her, taking her hand in his and pulling it close enough to kiss before he sighed, and relaxed, falling off to sleep.

She lay there a long time, just watching his sleeping face, the deep lines of grief and anger he'd worn for so long easing smooth as he slept. Eventually she, too, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

It was late afternoon when she woke to a touch on her cheek. Byrne was awake, and looking at her, the tips of his fingers lying gently against her cheekbone. "You stayed," he said, sounding both pleased and relieved.

She smiled warmly back at him. "I said I would."

"And you never lie," he said.

"Almost never," she said. "And never to you, Hawke."

His eyes clouded, gaze darkening for a moment. "You don't have to call me that, you know. I'd rather you called my by name. Or the word you used earlier. Vhen... vhen-something."

"Vhenan. Ma vhenan," she said, and smiled, reaching out to cup her own hand against his cheek. She could feel something scratchy against the palm of her hand. Stubble; he needed to shave, or he'd grow a beard all over, like humans could. "Byrne."

He smiled again, tenderly, and turned his head – stubble scritching against her skin – to press a kiss to the palm of her hand. "What does it mean?" he asked.

She blushed, and smiled. "Heart. My heart."

" _Oh_ ," he said, eyes going wide in surprise for a moment, and then he smiled, so warmly and happily she thought her own might burst from the joy of seeing it. He rolled closer, kissing her on the mouth, all soft lips and scratchy bristles. "Ma vhenan," he whispered afterwards, filling her with warmth.

They spent a while then in kisses, kissing each other on lips and cheeks and neck. She kissed the end of his nose, which made him laugh, and then rub his nose against hers, which made her laugh. He ran his fingers through her hair, stripping out the ties that held it back so it fell loose around her face, then buried his face in it, inhaling deeply before finding and kissing her ear lobe. And then sucking and nibbling gently on it, which made her gasp and curl her toes, her own fingers threading into his shorter ear, finding and tracing the curved edge of his ears, so like and unlike the gracefully shaped ears of the elves.

He drew back after a while, a pleased expression on his face as he looked down at her, and she smiled up at him, even as her hands touched his face gently. She explored the shape and textures of it; the arch of his eyebrows, the hard line of his cheekbone, the short-cropped patch of hairs on his chin, only a little longer than the stubble roughening his cheeks and upper lip. He smiled as her fingers brushed along his top lip, kissed them. "Should I go shave?" he asked.

"I think you might need to," she said judiciously. "Can I watch? I've never seen how it's done."

He laughed, briefly. "Yes, you can watch," he agreed, and rolled out of bed.

She perched on the rim of the big marble bathtub, watching as he warmed some water and used a short-handled, long-bristled brush to work up foam on a piece of soap in a bowl. It had a nice scent, something warmly spicy, one she'd often noticed around him. He held a heated wet cloth to his face for a little while, then lathered up his cheeks with the soap foam, before picking up an oddly shaped knife. It had a curved wooden handle, and a very thin, straight blade that folded into it. He opened it up, then picked up one end of a leather strap attached to the wall and stropped the blade back and forth a few times to sharpen it further.

She tensed for a moment as he lifted his chin, peering awkwardly into a small mirror hung on the wall, and set the sharp blade against the skin of his own throat. Then he slid it up toward his jawline, the sharp edge gliding smoothly through the lather, lifting away the foam and the fine hairs within it. He rinsed it and scraped more foam and stubble away, working his way around his neck, then shifted his grip and began scraping it down his cheeks and out toward the point of his jaw. He worked carefully around the patch of longer hairs below his mouth that he liked to keep. Eventually he put aside the blade, and used a wet cloth to wipe his face clean of any remaining bits of lather and loose hairs.

"How do I look?" he asked.

She smiled. "Like yourself, of course."

He laughed, and smiled, then leaned down to kiss her again. "I feel more like myself too," he said, then turned back to the washstand, cleaning up after himself before leading the way back to the bedroom.

They ended up on the bed again, sitting side by side on the edge of it, resuming their earlier exploration of each other, trading kisses and touches. His skin felt very different after being shaved; very smooth, though not as smooth as an elf's would have been, there being the slightest roughness still of the ends of the fine hairs if she brushed her fingers against the grain of them.

Byrne kissed his way down her throat, lips warm against her skin, drawing off her scarf to press kisses against the skin underneath it. He licked once at the hollow of her throat, just above the edge of her mail and tunic, then lifted his head to look at her. His irises were very bright; his pupils wide and dark. "May I... can we..." he broke off, hands tightening in the fabric of her tunic.

"Yes," she said, and stood up, her hands reaching to untie and remove the sheath of fabric, then begin unfastening the light mail she wore beneath it.

Byrne watched for a moment, eyes wide, then reached for the lacings of his own tunic. "Should I...?"

"Yes. Please."

He smiled, and rose to his feet, stripping off his shirt, hesitating only a moment before beginning to unlace and remove his leggings as well. She had more fastenings to undo than he did – all the little clasps and buckles holding her mail on – and he was standing in just his smalls before she had finished, both of them looking curiously at the other.

He was shaped oddly, compared to an elf, bulky where they would be slim, his chest wider and not as deep. It was, she knew from Marethari's teachings, part of why humans were so weak. Their breastbone was so shallow, it didn't give their arms and shoulders the same leverage that the deeper, narrower chest of the elves did. That's why they needed to put on so much excess muscle to match the strength of an elf, Marethari said. She'd seen that herself since; witness how slender Fenris was, yet could easily use a sword that a human would need considerably more muscle mass to wield with any skill. The elves were obviously better put together, with their better sight and hearing, and greater strength.

When she was down to just her own underthings, she stepped closer, reaching out to touch the smooth skin of his chest. "I thought humans were supposed to be hairy all over," she said, curious. "But you're almost as smooth as en elf. Except here," she added, poking at the tuft of long hairs under his arm.

Byrne laughed, flinching ticklishly away from her touch there. "Humans differ. Some are very hairy, yes. I'm not though."

"Hairier than an elf would be," she said, running a finger through the red-gold hairs dusting his forearm, almost invisible except where the light caught them, fine hairs where an elf would be entirely smooth. He smiled, and ran a finger in likewise fashion along the skin of her own forearm.

They ended up back on the bed after that, exploring each other with kisses and touches, hands roaming to feel the differences in shape, in texture, the similarities as well. His hands were big enough to entirely cover her small breasts; their nipples were both equally sensitive, pebbling to each other's touch. Their smalls were removed and discarded eventually. He was shaped much like an elf there as well, though with considerably more hair, and his shape was not quite as graceful. Larger than she'd expected, too – but to scale with his greater size, so she supposed she should have expected that after all.

He was fascinated by her own relative hairlessness down there, just a fine dusting of very short, soft hairs. "Like velvet," he said quietly, rubbing his fingers against her smooth folds, eyes half-lidded as he bent close to kiss her on the lips again. He worked his way down her body, kissing her on throat and collarbones, down along her breastbone, the tip of each breast. Further yet, across the plane of her stomach, stopping to taste her belly button – which made her giggle – and then kissed his way lower yet. She gave a single surprised cry at one point, and then sighed happily, laying back and spreading her legs wide, fingers stroking at his hair and fondling the edges of his ears as he kissed and licked at her most intimate places.

It seemed almost dreamlike, to be here with him in the wide bed in his high-ceilinged bedroom, him between her legs – though not in any way she'd ever imagined, the handful of times she'd let herself imagine such a thing at all – the slow-building pleasure of his touch, as first tongue alone and then in company with fingers worked at her. She wondered what she tasted like, to him. Wondered what _he'd_ taste like, if she did a similar service to him, which she knew from Isabela's talk was both possible and usually very much enjoyed by the man in question. She'd have to remember to ask Isabela for more details, she supposed... and then she stopped thinking at all, except of the pleasure cresting through her over and over again, from Byrne's touch and tongue. She lost track of the world for a little while.

She was in his arms when she opened her eyes again, cradled protectively against his chest. It made her feel warm, and safe. And wanted, which was best of all. One of his hands was placed flat against the small of her back, holding her close to him, the other massaging gently at the back of her neck. She made a pleased sound, burrowing her nose into the base of his neck.

"Are you all right?" he asked, sounding a little worried.

"Yes. I'm fine. Are _you_ all right?" she asked, drawing back her head to study his face, so close to her own.

He smiled then, the warm, open smile she hadn't seen since before Leandra's death. "Yes. I'm very fine," he said, and kissed her.


End file.
